Understand that when the beast within yousucceeds again in paralyzing into unendingincompletion whatever you again had the temerity totry to makeits triumph is made sweeter by confirmation of itsrectitude. It knows that it aloneknows you.

I’m not a fool, I knew from the beginningwhat couldn’t happen. What couldn’t happendidn’t. The enterprise is abandoned.But half our life is dreams, delirium, everything that underliesthat feedsthat keeps alive the illusion of sanity, semi-sanity,...

Though the body is itsgenesis, a poem is the vision of a processOut of ceaseless motion in edgeless spaceCarved in space, vision your poor eye’s singlearmor against winter spring summer fall

drugged to sleep by repetition of the diurnalround, the monotonous sorrow of the finite,within I am awakerepairing in dirt the frayed immaculate threadforced by being to watch the birth of suns

The stratagems by which briefly youameliorated, even seeminglyuntwisted what still twists within you —you loved their taste and lay thereon your sidenursing like a puppy.

Horrible the fate of the advice-giver in our culture: to repeat oneself in a thousand contexts until death, or irrelevance. *I abjure advice-giver.

The law is that youmust livein the house you have built.The law is absurd: it iswritten down nowhere.You are uncertain what crimeis, though each life writhing toelude what it has madefeels like punishment.